Countdown
by Rphoenix
Summary: Heero encounters the other pilots when they're all children.


**Countdown**

Title: Countdown

Fandom: Gundam Wing

Words: 3600

Rating and warnings: PG for violence and trauma; this is a story about Heero, so warning for suicide attempts. Given the fanon regarding the subject matter, perhaps I should mention that this story does not contain any child abuse other than that inherent in being trained as a child soldier.

Synopsis: Heero has brief encounters with the other pilots when they're all children.

**Author's Note: **The canon for this story was taken from the manga _Episode Zero_. It has backstories for the pilots which had been intended to be part of the anime, but were cut for logistical reasons. You don't have to have read the manga to read this story, and the only things the story spoils are fairly predictable anyway. Odin Lowe is in the manga; he's an assassin who teaches the child Heero (who apparently didn't then have that name) the tricks of the trade.

**Five**

I had accompanied Odin Lowe on many missions by the time I first asked him if I could carry out of our scheduled assassinations myself. His eyes widened, the corners of his mouth went down, and he shouted "No!"

I was surprised that had broken the rule about unnecessary noise on assignment, and also that he would object so strongly to such an obvious idea.

"I know how to use the injector," I explained. "And no one will be suspicious of a little boy. It'll be much easier for me to get close to him."

"No. It's…" he hesitated. "It's too risky."

"I just said it was less risky for me."

Odin put down the pistol he was cleaning and gestured to me to do the same. I did not. I was not yet finished.

"You're right about the overall mission risk. What I meant was that danger that's appropriate for me isn't appropriate for you. Your life is more precious."

"Why?"

"Because you're young. If you die, more years are wasted than if I do."

I nodded. That was logical. "When will I be old enough that it won't matter how many years I waste?"

He sighed. "It always matters. It just…" He peered through the scope of his rifle. "Shush now."

I crept up beside him. The celebration had progressed since the last time I had looked out the curtained window of our hotel room. Black-haired boys and girls in white cotton clothes were on the stage now, tumbling and pretending to kick and strike each other. One boy, with glasses and long loose hair, looked as if he would be a dangerous opponent if he was fighting for real and his enemy was also unarmed.

The children concluded their performance and left the stage. A man in an embroidered jacket stepped up on to it. Odin adjusted the scope and shot him in the head. We disassembled our weapons and walked outside. Everyone was running around and shouting, except for the boy with glasses. He was tugging on an adult's sleeve and pointing at the window of the room we had been in. I nudged Odin.

"Good eye," he said. I wasn't sure if he meant the boy or me. There were hundreds of windows in the hotel, but also hundreds of onlookers.

We continued moving through the crowd. When I lost sight of the boy, he was angrily yanking on the sleeve of a different adult.

"How long before I'm old enough?" I asked later, as we strapped down into the shuttle.

Gravity pushed Odin back into his seat, and pulled new wrinkles into his face. "Too soon."

**Four**

Odin mingled with the guests, chatting about pacifism and self-rule. He had told me to stick to his side for a while, as if shy, and then to wander away, as if bored, and to plant myself by the buffet table and stay there, as if greedy. When we had rehearsed, he tried to school my facial expressions and body language, but finally said, "I guess people will have to read the right motives into your actions. Just try not to glare at them."

I did as he had ordered, avoiding direct eye contact. I was uncomfortable in the stiff fabric of my suit, and I missed my pistol. I practiced counting seconds, memorizing people, and charting their positions. Every ten minutes, I indicated greed by eating a food item from the nearest tray. Luckily they were small.

"Your family must be rich, like mine," said a small blonde boy. "Even we don't often eat lobster, and you're not even tasting it."

I had noticed him before, the only other boy my age at the party. (There were 29 girls, all blonde and bearing a strong resemblance to each other.)

I put another bit of food in my mouth to give myself time to think of how to reply. The flavor was buttery, marine yet almost sweet. The meat was resilient, the sauce was creamy, and the toast crunched.

"I can taste it," I said. "It's good. That's why I'm eating so many."

He piled more onto a plate and handed it to me. "Come with me. Take the canapes. I'll show you something more interesting than this plastic party full of clones."

"I'm not supposed to leave by myself."

"You're not leaving by yourself." The boy smiled. My neck still itched from the shirt tag and I still didn't have my pistol, but I didn't mind so much any more. "You're leaving with me."

It would probably attract less attention if I went than if I argued. I followed the boy. He led me out the door and along a corridor, then opened a door. It led to a viewing port, a bubble of transparent plasteel. The door was painted black, so when it closed behind us, it looked as if we were floating in space.

"The stars are so close," said the boy. "Like people at a crowded party. They could be talking to each other. Or to us. What do you think they'd have to say?"

"They only look close," I said. "'Put three grains of sand inside a vast cathedral, and the cathedral will be more closely packed with sand than space is with stars.'"

It was a quote from an ancient book of scientific essays. Odin liked historical nonfiction, and always gave me his books when he was done with them.

"Have you ever been in outer space?" the boy asked.

"I've been on shuttles."

"Never in a suit?" He ate one of the lobster bits from my plate. His expression was casually curious. I realized that it must not be unusual for boys our age to have worn space suits outside of emergency drills.

"No, I've done that too." I ate another lobster bit.

"Space suit, or mobile suit?"

"Space suit."

"That's right, mobile suits aren't exactly available to the public. But I get to borrow one sometimes because of my father's business. There's nothing like it— nothing between you and the stars. And the way they move! Your gun is like your own right hand. Want to try? I have classes all day tomorrow, but I'm free in the evening."

"Yes— No, I can't. I'm just visiting." I reached for a lobster bit, but they were all gone. When had we eaten them all? I checked my watch. How could so much time have passed?

"Stars don't measure time like we do." The boy wasn't looking at me, but out at the black and the dazzling white.

"I have to go."

He turned toward me, but he seemed so content in that bubble of space that I hated to take him out of it.

"You stay," I said. "I can find my own way back."

I opened the door just as a siren went off. I ran for the exit. I made it outside before the guards showed up, and headed for the meeting place we'd designated in case of separation. It was a long time before Odin arrived. There was blood in his hair and under his nails.

"The target had an allergic reaction," he explained. "He collapsed twenty minutes after I stuck him, foaming at the mouth and yelling that he'd been poisoned."

It was supposed to take nine hours or more before any effects became noticeable. By then the damage would be irreversible.

"Do you think they'll be able to save him?"

"Not after I broke his neck, no." Odin shrugged. "They would have locked down the room anyway at that point, so I figured I might as well make sure. And where were you?"

"Avoiding trouble."

"You were gone long before there was any."

"That's how to do it."

He stared at me, then laughed. "One of those pretty little blondes, was it? Nothing wrong with that— so long as you're not on a mission. Next time, stick to the plan and don't get distracted."

I thought of the blonde boy, his smile, the taste of lobster, the voices of stars.

"Odin…" I said slowly. "Can you teach me to pilot a mobile suit?"

**Three**

I clamped my hand down on the sleeper's mouth. He woke up fighting, but went still when I jammed my pistol into the side of his neck. His spiky brown hair hid half his face, but a single green eye looked up at me.

"Don't try to yell," I said softly, my mouth so close to his ear that it brushed against his stiff hair. "I need you to get some medical supplies and come with me. I'll let you go once you've helped my…" I decided to stick with our usual cover story. "Father."

"I'm not the medic," the boy replied.

"I know." The medic was in the infirmary tent with the wounded, who probably didn't sleep well and constituted an unacceptable risk. But his assistant slept outside in a sleeping bag. "But I saw you helping him, so you must know something. Come on."

We slipped into the supply truck, got what he said we needed, and crept out of the mercenary camp and into the jungle. I had watched Odin take hostages before. This boy was unusually quiet. He was probably plotting something.

"Don't think of hurting him," I said. "I'll be watching everything you do to him."

"I won't. Medics are sworn to care for anyone, you know. Even the enemy." He turned and looked calmly down the barrel of my pistol. "But you're not the enemy, are you?"

"Who's the enemy?"

"The Alliance."

"We're not them." Odin had killed Alliance men. But he'd killed a lot of people. He didn't always tell me who they were, or why they were to die.

"If you're rebels, you could have just walked in."

That hadn't occurred to me. "I don't think we're them either."

"Well, who hurt your father?"

"I'm not sure. It's complicated."

The boy nodded. "It's like that sometimes."

The camouflage was undisturbed when we reached the place where I had left Odin. I pulled the leaves and branches aside. He was still unconscious.

It would be my fault if he died. He should have let me take the job. I didn't understand why he'd let me be his back-up, but wouldn't let me handle the kill. If I'd been wounded, it would have been much easier for him to extract me than it had been for me to extract him. We hadn't even been able to make it back to our designated retreat, and all because I couldn't carry him.

The boy checked Odin's pulse and breathing, telling me as he did so what they ought to be and what they were, and tried unsuccessfully to wake him up. "That's called being unresponsive. It's bad. What was the mechanism of injury?"

"What?"

"What happened to him?"

"I think he got too close to an explosion."

He finished his examination. "His leg's broken. I can set that. He has a head injury, but I can't tell how serious it is. There's not much I can do for that here. Sure you don't want to come in to the camp?"

"I'm sure."

"You could try hijacking an ambulance. Could you do that?"

I nodded.

The boy set Odin's leg, bandaged his head, and started an IV line, explaining what he was doing and why as he did so. I listened carefully, memorizing his words and actions. Odin had never taught me anything like this. It seemed useful.

"Thank you," I said. He sat looking at me solemnly, as if he expected something more. There must be things people were supposed to say in times like this. "What's your name?"

"I don't have one. What's yours?"

"I don't either."

I watched until he disappeared into the jungle, and then I set off for the main road. It was a war zone. An ambulance would come soon enough.

**Two**

I saw the hand slip into Odin's pocket a second before Odin felt it. He spun round just as I lunged forward. The little street rat dodged with surprising speed, and Odin and I nearly collided.

"Get the box!" said Odin in an urgent undertone.

I dashed after the thief. Odin was right behind me. The boy glanced behind him, saw us gaining on him, and dove into an open drainpipe. I followed. It was a tight fit. There was no way Odin could follow us here. I clutched at the boy's long trailing hair, and was rewarded with a yelp of pain and a boot in the face. He tore loose and wriggled faster.

I blinked in a sudden flood of light. He'd reached the end of the tunnel and scrambled out. I flung myself forward and grabbed his ankle. My upper body was outside but my legs were still in the pipe, and I had little leverage from that position. But neither did he. I pulled him toward me, reaching for the little box he still clutched in his hand. The boy punched me with his free fist, but I was trained to ignore that. I punched him harder, snapping his neck back and sending his absurd hair flying all around. Then I jerked the box from his loosened fingers.

Something slammed into my temple. I felt cold concrete against my cheek and shoulder. I realized that I was lying on the ground. I couldn't seem to get up or open my eyes.

"Thanks, Solo," said a cheerful voice. "He hits hard for a richie. Good thing you hit harder."

The second voice was more wary. "What's that thing you were fighting over?"

"Dunno! It was in some richie's pocket. His father's, I think. Must be good, he came all this way after it. Let's see."

Fingers began to pry mine from the box. I tried to pull it closer to my body.

"He's waking up," said the cautious voice. "Sit on him."

A light weight settled down on me, and something feathery brushed my face. I sneezed and opened my eyes. The long-haired boy was on top of me, with his messy hair all over my face. His friend was guarding me with a steel pry bar.

"It's a bomb," I said. "Don't open it."

The boys both froze.

"He's lying," said the one with the pry bar— Solo, the other had called him.

"Maybe not." The long-haired boy shifted his weight, then pulled out my pistol from its holster, snug against the small of my back. "Richie boys don't carry. Say… let's leave the maybe-a-bomb, and sell the gun. His shoes, too. They're new."

"I have a better idea," said a familiar voice. "You kids leave the box, leave the pistol, and leave my boy alone. Run and hide and never mention any of this to anyone ever, and I won't kill either of you."

"Deal!" The long-haired boy jammed my pistol back into its holster, hopped off my back, and grabbed his friend's hand. They were gone before I could blink.

Odin knelt beside me. I felt his hands on me, but only barely. I could hardly feel the ground I lay on, either. He said, "How did you know there's a detonator in the box?"

"I didn't." My voice sounded strange. My head hurt.

"Good bluff." He scooped me up into his arms. No one had ever done that to me before. I tensed.

"You can't walk," Odin said. "And we can't stay here. We have places to go, and military installations to blow up."

His body was warm, and his voice was soothing as he described our next assignment. But I waited until he had finished the mission plan and was beginning to repeat himself before I let myself fell asleep.

**One**

Dr. J and I have this in common: we'd both like to know what it would take to kill me. Not for the same reasons, of course.

It's ironic how eager I was to cooperate when he offered to make me a perfect pilot, a perfect soldier, a living weapon. Odin was dead. Odin was dead, because I hadn't persuaded him not to take that last job. Because I hadn't protected him. Because I hadn't been strong enough for him to trust me to protect him. Because I'd never made a kill.

Dr. J enhanced my time sense, and made it easier for me to make mental calculations. Even so, I don't know how many people I've killed now. I could probably make a reasonable approximation by looking up public records after my missions, but some are wounded and die later. It would never be a true number, so I haven't bothered.

"Your best offense will be your Gundam," Dr. J had said. "Your best defense will be your own body. I can make you almost indestructible." His mechanical fingers clicked together. "It'll hurt. It'll hurt a lot."

"I don't care," I'd said.

Later, I said, "Make it so I can't feel pain. Make it so I can't feel anything."

"If your hand is in the fire, it's better for you to notice."

"But I heal perfectly. It wouldn't matter. Besides, I didn't mean—"

"Yes?" Light flashed from the lenses of his goggles.

He couldn't give me what I really wanted. What he'd already given me had made that next to impossible.

"I have something else I can do for you, though," he said, after waiting for an answer I didn't give. "I think I can give you some resistance to electricity. Not enough to withstand a lightning strike, but enough to get through most commercial electrical shields. It could be very useful. But, Heero, I have to warn you—"

"It'll be painful?"

He nodded.

"Dangerous?"

"Yes. Your heart might stop. And the process itself might make it impossible to revive you."

"Do it."

_Still alive_, I thought when I woke up later. The number of times I'd thought that didn't make this occasion any less disappointing. Before I opened my eyes, I reached out and shoved at the air above my face, connecting with a nose and a pair of goggles. Dr. J tends to hover.

"Ow!"

I sat up. Waking up was always the same: _Still alive, _the same white room, the same looming Dr. J, a new ability or an injury healed.

It had been different once. Odin didn't like to risk me, but there had been a few times when I'd been shot or knocked out or half-strangled. I'd wake up and he'd be there, not lurking like a vulture, just in the room or tent or clearing with me. _Still alive_, I'd think, and that had felt different, then.

Since I'd come to Earth, I'd woken up a few more times: on a beach with Relena, strapped to a lab table with Duo's winking face on the monitor, and on another beach beneath a cliff with Duo again. _Still alive_. I recall the thought, but I'd been too occupied with the need for escape to remember now if it had felt different.

Now I stood with my detonator in my hand and a perfect reason to use it. Take myself and Wing out of the equation, and there would be no need to threaten the colonies. The other pilots were all shouting at me. They must think I was abandoning the fight. Abandoning them. But we were never partners, and I was ending the war.

_There won't be any _still alive_ this time,_ I hoped. There couldn't be any waking view of Dr. J— he wasn't even on Earth. No one was there but the other Gundam pilots: allies, not friends, but as familiar to me as I suppose all soldiers are to each other. This time I'd wake up with one of them or not at all. It was a comforting thought to take with me into the dazzling white, and black.

Author's notes

I think this story is just maybe barely plausible, given that if I had one encounter with someone when we were both about ten, under high stress and poor lighting, I would be unlikely to recognize him five years later in a totally different context. Maybe Quatre and Trowa remember but don't mention it.

The boy doing martial arts is Wu Fei, of course. He wore glasses when he was younger.

The 29 blonde girls are Quatre's clone-sisters, whom I think of as The Winner Group. I think Heero assumes Quatre's remark about clones is sarcasm.

I wanted to write baby!infiltrator!Trowa, but the amount of set-up that would have required would have made it a full-length story in its own right. I figured that he has at least EMT-level medical training, given that he took care of Heero while he was in a coma for a month immediately following the conclusion of this story, and the mercenaries seemed the most likely place for him to have learned it.

I didn't make up Solo, though sadly he exists only in a footnote to Duo's story in _Episode Zero. _Talk about cutting-room floor! Technically that vignette is out of sequence (the rest are chronological), as Duo was younger when Solo died than Heero seems to be in the bits with Quatre and Trowa. I couldn't resist keying the order of the vignettes to the pilots' numbers, though.


End file.
